


Your last, loveliest smile

by JuweWright



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Regency, F/M, Gen, Regency Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-01
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-08-14 03:32:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16485146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JuweWright/pseuds/JuweWright
Summary: Hermione Granger is the heiress to a large fortune. When her Family gets a visit from the Malfoys, who have lately bought the neighbouring estate and moved to the more fashionable Devonshire from the North of England, she meets Draco Malfoy, who isn't half the Gentleman he should be and seems determined to hate the whole district and every last one of its inhabitants.George Weasley is the Gardener at Taverton Hall, the Granger's home. Having grown up alongside Hermione, perceived more as her brother than as a servant, he isn't impressed by Draco's uncouth behaviour towards her and her family.Will Draco's mind change, altered by the heiresse's charm and wit? Will George always feel only brotherly love for the beautiful heroine?





	1. Her Friend

**Author's Note:**

> This Story was fuelled by my everlasting love for Jane Austen and the Regency Era, a regency-themed dance I attended a few weeks ago and a harvest-themed moodboard I made for the Hermione's Haven group on FB.

_1820_

_A slight breeze made the leaves in the old oak trees shiver. Light green, golden and brown, most of them still clung to their twigs, but a few let go and tumbled, tumbled, tumbled to the ground, nestling upon those who had fallen before them. Slowly, the autumn colours formed a soft carpet on top of the green mossy grass of the graveyard._

_A young man walked down the gravel path, his riding boots worn out by the years, his tailcoat not quite in tune with the latest fashion, but well-kept and clean. The evening light did nothing to conceal the colour of his short hair: a fiery, fierce red. Gentlemen these days had means to conceal if they were unfortunate enough to have been born a redhead, but George Weasley had never been a gentleman and even though he had gladly abandoned the wig when it became more and more accepted to wear your own hair, he had no taste for the elegance and foppishness that was sported by the likes of Beau Brummel these days. Stiff neckcloths and curly hairdos were for those further upwards on the staircase of society. He might not be a poor man in a country that had its fair share of poverty, but he wasn’t rich either. He worked for his living as his father had done before him. As the gardener of Taverton Hall, he lived in a neat little cottage at the outer rim of the estate, a quiet, small and comfortable home._

_His footsteps fell heavier as he neared the huge metal gate that sealed the entrance to the Taverton burial vault. Generations of the Granger family had been interred in this chamber and it had only been a few days since the doors had opened again to welcome a new addition. He had brought a bunch of flowers, not the fancy roses and gardenias that he planted in the estate’s spacious garden area, but wildflowers from the fields further towards the woods._

 

1798

Mr Weasley was walking towards the stately home in a brisk pace. His attire was as dapper as he could manage with what he had in his wardrobe. His wife had died giving birth to the twins. Mr Weasley had managed to raise the boys on his own with a little help from the handmaidens and the lady Granger who had doted on the children and made sure that they never lacked anything. Even though the Weasleys were mere servants to the Grangers, the families had always shared a deep friendship.

George had only recently had to say good bye to his brother Fred. Mrs Granger had a brother in the city who worked as a lawyer and had agreed to take the boy into his home to teach him and raise him to become his apprentice. Fred was a quick thinker and a bookish boy, much like his mother had been, whilst George came after his father, content to work in the fresh air, to nurture the little plants in the green houses and watch them grow into beautiful flowers. George had often felt like he was dumb in comparison to his twin, but Fred had always laughed when he said this aloud and told him that there was as much honour in knowing three languages as there was in knowing all the plant names and how herbs could be used as natural remedies.

Father and son walked up the steps at the back of the house where household staff usually entered the building. Upon crossing through the kitchen, they were greeted by a happy-looking Mrs Lovegood. The cook, a proper woman in her fourties, smiled widely and took Mr Weasley’s hand.

“It’s a young girl” she announced. “And she’s healthy and beautiful.”

Five minutes later, Mr Granger bid them to come in and have a look at the newborn baby. Mrs Granger was sitting up in a chair, holding a bundle of rags in her arms. Only when she signalled him to come closer and have a look did George see that there was a tiny wrinkly face in the linen sheets.

“Oh, isn’t she pretty?” exclaimed Mr Weasley happily.

George didn’t say a word. The baby looked very small and very wrinkly and very red. He had seen new born puppies that had been cuter than this weird, gnome-like creature. Just when he had thought that, he noticed the baby’s hand, tiny, but very clearly a hand with five fingers and minuscule fingernails. It was quite fascinating. He reached out to touch it and the baby immediately tightened its grip around his outstretched finger with much more force than he’d thought it capable of.

“Oh, look at that” Mr Weasley said. “She already made a friend.”

“You’ll be her friend, I am sure” Lady Granger noted with a weary smile on her face, stroking George’s red hair. “You’ll protect her from all the evil in the world, won’t you.”

George, flattered by the faith that was set in him, nodded: “Yes, I’m gonna look after her, Lady Granger.”

He studied the little face again. So tiny, so helpless.

“What’s her name?” he enquired.

Her mother smiled again.

“Hermione” she murmured. “Hermione Jean Granger.”


	2. His Superior

1805

“Hermione!”

The governess’s voice carried across the lawn. George was tending some of the bushes down at the lake and wondered whether this woman would ever gain the upper hand over her charge. He bet she wouldn’t. Hermione, seven years old, a picture of health and happiness, didn’t care much for the opinion of Minerva McGonagall. She’d get there some day, George was sure, as the older woman had a lot of wisdom and wit to offer and was very probably the cleverest inhabitant of Taverton Hall at the moment – including Mr Granger, who was no dimwit himself, but was exceptionally well-read in some subjects while being completely clueless in others. It was hard to find a topic on which Miss McGonagall did not have a very decided opinion rooted in lots of in-depth study of the subject matter. She even knew a lot about herbs and plants which was how George had first come to appreciate her presence in the house. She came round to the cottage every fortnight to have tea with his father. When she had discovered that Mr Weasley had taught his son to read, she had been delighted and ever since, she had made it her mission to broaden his horizon by constantly supplying him with reading material.

“Hermione!”

George saw a movement in a hedge just a few feet away. So there she was. He waited another moment to be really sure and then jumped in one fluid motion, grabbing her by her collar and pulling her out of the greenery.

Her hair was all over the place. Tiny twigs had caught in her curls and there was hardly anything left of the neat braids. She fought to escape his grip, her eyes flashing.

“Let go of me, George!”

“Did you just run off from your lessons with Miss McGonagall?”

She pouted.

“And what if I did?”

“Well, I’d be a bad servant if I let you run off.”

She frowned, thinking, considering his words, then stopped fidgeting. He let her stand and she crossed her arms in front of her chest.

“Why?” she asked. “Why would that make you a bad servant?”

“Because, little Miss, your mother and father are my lord and lady and they hired Miss McGonagall to teach you all the things a girl needs to know. If I let you run off, I go directly against their wishes and that makes me a bad servant.”

The girl frowned again.

“But you’re my servant, too” she said indignantly. “And it goes against my wish to be trapped in the drawing room for another minute. I have been cross-stitching for hours and I still can’t do it without pricking my finger with the needle. And it doesn’t even turn out nicely. My stitches are hideous and I get scolded for not being patient enough and pulling too hard all the time. I’d much rather go and ride Greta or sit in the old oak tree and read some more in the book you gave me, the one with the pictures of trees and leaves in it.”

George sighed.

“I know it’s a pain in the buttocks, but every young lady needs to be educated in such things as cross stitching and sewing and knitting… and I know you have a piano lesson coming up today as well. You like playing the piano, don’t you?”

She nodded, her eyes wide.

“I like it very much.”

Then the corners of her mouth dropped.

“But if I poke myself with the needle all the time, my fingers will be very sore and I won’t even be able to play half as well as I can.”

George smiled and stroked the little girl’s hair back.

“Come on,” he said. “Go back to Miss McGonagall. When you’re a good girl and you’ve finished your needlework and the piano lesson and I have finished cutting this hedge, we can go riding together in the afternoon. Does that sound like fun?”

She looked as if he had just promised her they’d dig out a pot of gold. Hermione loved riding and she was pretty proficient for such a young person. Yet her father didn’t allow her to go on horseback on her own. He was happy to have George accompany her though and – just a few weeks ago - had allowed him to ride one of the farm horses instead of just leading Hermione’s pony when he did so.

“Can we go down to the forest?” Hermione demanded as they set out in the evening light.

George smiled and nodded. It was almost an hour’s ride, but he had already finished his chores for the day and it was two hours until the dinner would be served in Taverton Hall.

“Mrs Figg is making a ragout for dinner” Hermione announced as the horses trotted along the narrow walkway. “And pudding.”

Geroge grinned.

“Sounds as if you are looking forward to it” he noted.

Hermione nodded wildly. Some of her hair was already escaping the braids again.

“You should come. There’ll be more than enough anyways” she said.

George sighed. Hermione didn’t understand her position yet. She understood that her parents owned Taverton Hall, but she did not get the difference in standing.

“I don’t think that is possible” he said. “I am only the gardener’s son. I don’t even own a dinner jacket. I could never dine with your family.”

Hermione was quiet for a few minutes. Only the sound of the hooves on the soft floor could be heard, disrupted by the horses snorting from time to time. Then she held out her hand to take George’s.

“You are my friend. And I am inviting you to dinner as my friend. I don’t care if you have a dinner jacket.”

George nodded. She was still so young. She would learn that even though they lived only a quarter mile from each other and had grown up together, they originated from different worlds. There was a gap between them which could never be breached and would only become wider and wider with time. He knew she’d convince her parents that he should be invited to dinner and he knew they would oblige their daughter. But he also knew that her invitation into her world was temporary and that he’d never belong into the dining room of Taverton Hall. He was the gardener’s son. He’d be the gardener someday. But he’d always be a servant. Hermione’s friendship might be sincere, but even this little, beautiful, strong-headed girl would not be able to change the way of things. She’d always be his superior, she just had not realized that yet.


End file.
